The first chapter in a story of jelously and malice which spirals out of control.
|Have you ever in vain either churned over, analysed, seethed over results of a situation entirely out of your control?
Of course you have, you are human after all. Are you above feeling bitter, or jealous, or feeling the sore loser?
I don’t believe you when you say yes. I am a scholar in these schools of ill-thought, they have become my degree. It is not my fault I should feel so bitter, however.
If the first stone were to be cast, it would depart from my hand, arc in a magnificent crescendo, and seek it’s purchase squarely between the eyes of George Lowrey.
That mind of mine, it has a mind of it’s own.
She found herself sometimes, as one does, in a most preoccupied of states. She could have been on the verge of sleep; exhausted from a day of laborious exertions, immersed in a gripping text, or attempting to slow an avalanche of accumulated possessions flowing from the cloakroom under the stairs, (why didn’t she start from the top?) and she just imagined that smug smirk of subtle disdain George Lowrey often wore in her company.
It was enough to dust the sleep from her brain, to lose her train of thought, or momentarily hesitate to look over her shoulder in case he bore witness to her clumsiness. He is an infectious disease, a plague of her developing character, one which stunted the growth of her very personality, she thought.
Her brain was retarded with the fixation of George Lowrey, to the extent of forgetting who she herself was, her mind transfixed on all the negativity he brought into her life.
As if drugged, she would visualise what was not there, and perceive somewhat distortedly what was really before her, twisting reality to suit her fantasies. All in concern of that vile being, so much time was consumed by the thought of him.
Unhealthy at best, she saw now. Unfortunately the very nature of hindsight refuses insight until it is indeed too late. More lemon juice to add to the paper cuts.
This infuriating, vexing, disturbing being, which she had the misfortune to share the earth with (which really isn’t quite large enough for two such as themselves) was the cause of so many harms to her mind and body that she had lost count. Forgive the exasperated figure of speech - she had not forgotten a single act of malice against her person put upon her by George Lowrey.
The standing total of fourteen does not include one-word comebacks, nor does it include incidences of body language, or smug facial suggestions. These became so frequent it would be a full time job to catalogue them in an orderly fashion.
She chose instead to remember the larger-scaled events, the ones which caused particular annoyance and discomfort, not that she would ever betray her feelings towards him on these matters. She thought herself a higher person than him for not clinging to the petty details of her disdain.
After all, she was above him, so she thought, but not above teaching him. Her mantra was that he would learn the value of treating his superiors with gratitude and respect. He would learn the consequences of being ignorant to these requirements of hers. She would inflict upon him what he deserves, even though he clearly knows not what he deserves; judging by his conduct.
The Devil’s greatest work was convincing people of his absence. She often wondered how he got any work done by constantly hiding. As with George, his mastery of our duels lay in his conceited ability to feign innocence to the true magnitude of their encounters.
The subtlety of his prowess was genius, such simplicity and seeming offhandedness at bringing her down was pulled off effortlessly. To an unsuspecting witness, he would simply appear to retaliate to her advances with the standard defence of childish name-calling and sarcastic back-answers.
Something told her he was not using the full potential of his vocabulary to retort; she knew he was capable, he was smarter than his words implied. This led her on to believe he thought her unworthy of a decent rivalry.
Such was the subtlety of his infuriating strategy. What’s more, he was aware of the battles he won; she was never one to keep composure during a heated moment. She was calculating, and appeared coy at times, but a little rage-induced adrenalin boost was often a sign of defeat, and he knew it.
When there was a lull between their encounters, she became most unsettled. He was plotting, she was plotting. His strategy would consist of an embarrassing prank in the public forum, childish at best, yet effective she had to admit. Here is where she stood taller, being the better person. She often sought to repay his efforts with more cunning, long-term stings. She would show him how worthy she was of his rivalry.
No, she would prove he was not worthy of her rivalry.
Her desire to triumph was unrivalled to his, however; his air of indifference, although feigned, contained real traces of nonchalance. This is where she would succeed, through greedy ambition.
His will to break her was led only by an infatuation with victory, as if a small taste of it’s glory would suffice for him.
She saw victory with sleepless obsession, compounded by her incalculable persistence, and strengthened by sheer blindness to all else.
George Lowrey first came into her life, as she know it now, on the last day of the previous term. That day, when even vaguely touched upon through an obscure route of memory in her mind, never fails to create feelings of utmost rage.
A touch of sorrow is felt also, remorse too, for who she used to be before she changed. That day was simply the worst day of her life, at the hands of George Lowrey, of course. The beginning was merely the ignition of their relationship, one of which no amount of water could extinguish the shortening fuse. Their hatred and viciousness escalated over time, almost to breaking point.
Doubtless had the events of that day not transpired, she would be a far happier person, allowing her potential to be channelled in more creative and productive efforts, she thought. However she simply dreamt, and she knew it.
It is not so, she is not so.
Reality is harsh and sometimes, unreal. Unreal to what it should be, she means to say. Unreal to the perception she had of it, at any rate. Something or someone else would have come along to ruin her life had George Lowrey not, she thought. It was fate, to live in this existence.
Unhappiness comes from desire.
You always desire the unattainable, for if it were attainable you would not want for it, because it would already be in your possession. She desire victory over her nemesis, but she knows it is not unattainable. This thought, although monumental in importance, rarely quells the demonic rage which takes her in regular fits.
She would not be at peace with herself until she knows George Lowrey will trouble her no more, for ever. Once she realised this she began to formulate the most devious and cunning of all her schemes.
She knew he would not bother her again hereafter, assuming all went according to plan. The repercussions of this effort of hers would be so severe for him, she assumed he would be out of her life permanently.